


The Hybrid Wars

by Pixelfun20



Series: Alternate Future of the World [2]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic), Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (You'll see why near the end), 2032 to the 2090s BABY, Alternate Future of the World, BAMF America (Hetalia), BAMF New Zealand (Hetalia), F/M, Gen, He really gets the short end of the stick, Minor Human OCs - Freeform, Near Future, Poor England (Hetalia), Post World War III, Post-War, Slow Burn, Technology, War, international politics, minor ships, really slow burn, semi-realistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixelfun20/pseuds/Pixelfun20
Summary: A decade of change has followed the end of WWIII, and a specious peace has lasted for just as long. New Abyssinia continues to plot in the shadows, Hybrid Energy has yet to be understood, and new alliances and rivalries are beginning their rise. With this new world's chaos and the clock ticking down to doomsday, will anyone be able to survive? Semi-realistic Earth, futuristic AU.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), America & Romano (Hetalia), Australia & New Zealand (Hetalia), Colorado & Utah (Hetalia), Cuba & Colombia (Hetalia), Iceland & Somalia (Hetalia), Russia & England (Hetalia), Somalia & Ethiopia (Hetalia), Venezuela & America (Hetalia)
Series: Alternate Future of the World [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1481870
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue

**Oh boy. You thought the last book was complicated? You have no idea how much of a beast this will be. "Rise of New Abyssinia" was 38 minutes long. "Tides of the Hybrid" is 2** _**hours** _ **and 38 minutes long.**

… **What am I getting myself into?**

 **Disclaimer :** **This story is based on the video/movie "Tides of the Hybrid" by VoidViper Mapping Animation Production, a YouTube channel and countryball mapper. Many of the characters come from Hidekaz Himaruya's "Hetalia" anime/manga, but several are of my own creation (including but not limited to Venezuela, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Somalia, and Djibouti), and a few references to VoidViper's characters. I only own the nuances of the storyline and my own characters. Please check out both "Hetalia" and "Tides of the Hybrid" if you haven't already, and please enjoy.**

* * *

**Prologue:**

**December 31, 3032**

**Walvis Bay, Namibia**

Four days.

He got to stay home for four _freaking_ days.

America grumbled as he strode on top of the deck of the USS _Bougainville_ [1], feeling uncomfortable, stuffy, and just plain _miserable_. Of course he had to wear this stupid suffocating full dress uniform. Of course it had to be 78 degrees out. Of course he had to spend New Year's at war again. Of _course_ he had to be halfway across the world in _Namibia_ because some dumb Africans somehow still bought into the whole New Abyssinia shit!

One of the officers walking in the opposite direction gave him a full five-foot berth as he passed, their thin greeting of "sir, yes, sir," barely heard from that distance.

Yeah. To say that the United States of America was pissed was an understatement.

"Ah! Admiral Jones!"

America looked up to see the Captain of the assault ship he was currently on. He immediately recognized her as Emma Lerek, an up-and-coming name in the navy that he'd heard about on his way here.

"Captain," he nodded curtly. If Lerek noticed his demeanor—and she certainly did—she didn't show it. Saluting, she moved to the side to walk in pace with him.

"I'm glad you were able to make it today, sir," Lerek continued on, waving to some officers as they prepped the landing gear. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet with you when you arrived this morning; there was a small skirmish off Torra Bay that I had to see to. I trust your trip was smooth, sir?"

"As it could be," America nodded. "I trust we can claim victory?"

"Yes, sir." Lerek's lips twitched upwards. "If I may be honest, I don't expect us to sustain many losses in this war, even if Namibia and Botswana throw everything they have at us, sir."

America nodded again, letting out a long breath as he attempted to calm himself.

"Well, we'll see what their stance is in this meeting," he replied after a long pause, watching as the crew let down the landing plank. Several soldiers meant to act as bodyguards (which, now that his role as a nation was widely known, was an irritating necessity) walked down first, conversing with two Namibian men down on the shore. After a moment, they motioned for Lerek and America to come down.

As they two stepped onto the shore, several cars pulled up on the street next to the docks. Two more men in suits exited the first car, walking up to the small party and speaking to the other Namibians in low tones for a moment. After exchanging several words, one of the men turned to America and Lerek.

"Come with us," he motioned. "As we agreed, we'll meet in that building over there." He gestured to an old building perhaps a half-mile down the coastline. Hard to defend and easy for Lerek and America to be extracted from if negotiations fell apart. "You'll take the second car."

America nodded, leading Lerek and their guards to the car, an old black limousine. The group sat down inside, watching the _Bougainville_ fade into the distance. Nothing was said during the short trip, and when the limousine slowed to a stop, America was quick to exit the vehicle and enter the building, Lerek right on his heels.

The interior of the building looked much better than the exterior did. They had entered into a small entry room, gently lit with floral decorations and a soft gray color. There was a hallway off to the right, and a door to the left.

As they entered, the door opened, two people stepping out. First was a woman with dark skin and brown hair pulled into a low bun, similarly to Lerek's. Second came a young man with curly brown hair shaved close to the scalp. Both wore identical black suits. The woman stepped forwards when they came into view, extending a hand towards America.

"United States," she nodded curtly. After a moment, the superpower shook her hand firmly.

"Namibia," he replied as the nation shook hands with Lerek. He nodded to the young man. "Botswana. This is Captain Emma Lerek. She will be assisting me in the negotiations today."

"As you wish," Namibia agreed. "I trust we will be able to speak alone?"

America glanced at Lerek, who shifted slightly to express her uneasiness at the request. America inclined his head to reassure her.

"Of course," he nodded, motioning for their guards to remain where they were. Namibia's lips flickered upwards, and she opened the door, the two Africans moving to let the two Americans into a reasonably sized conference table, with four seats set up near the head. Naturally, Namibia (being the host nation) took the head seat. Botswana took the sole chair on her left, which left America and Lerek to take the two chairs on the right.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, America," Namibia began. "I trust this meeting will end with a ceasefire and an end to the war."

"The game is over," America agreed. "The fleet currently assaulting your ships is only the welcoming party. Without a surrender we will easily overrun your defenses."

"We must know where you are harboring the New Abyssinians, specifically the location of their nation and Yessuf Biruh Abebe," Lerek added. "Along with a vow to cease entertaining these totalitarian ideals of yours."

Namibia sighed, looking Alfred straight in the eye. "New Abyssinia gave birth to a new, more powerful Africa," she declared softly. "I cannot agree to those terms."

"Then what is the point of bringing us here?" America questioned, folding his arms.

"I'm sure you know the design of our flag," came the disconnected response. Despite speaking to him, Namibia did seem to be gazing at something not really there or far away. It was unsettling. "When we declared our allegiance to New Abyssinia's ideals, we changed the red stripe in our flag to a yellow one. This yellow is meant to symbolize a new era. A new opportunity. A bright future for the world as a whole."

"The whole world stands against you, Namibia. What exactly do you plan to do when you're dead?"

"We don't plan to fight," Botswana put in quickly and easily. He looked up at the ceiling, a disjointed expression on his face.

"We have no reason to fight you, America," Namibia continued in the male's place, spreading out her hands across the table. "We surrender. Our lands are yours."

"Then you will give up the Abyssinians," Lerek demanded, brown eyes meeting Namibia's identically shaded irises. The African shrugged.

"Again, a condition I cannot meet. I have no clue where they are. They left my land several days ago."

America felt like banging his head into the table. Several times. Why in the world was he even here?!

"Surely you know where they went," he pushed, trying to get at least something out of this meeting other than a huge tract of African land that he had no idea what to do with.

"We did what we thought was best," Botswana answered, looking forlorn. "The rest of the world just doesn't see it that way. But you will. One day."

This was starting to get creepy. America had only met the two African nations in passing before WWIII, but he was fairly certain that they shouldn't be acting as eerie as this. They were hiding something, but what?

"Botswana," Namibia's hands had started shaking. Abruptly, she had paled. "It's been an honor. Now it's time for a leap of faith."

America and Lerek shared an alarmed look just as Namibia brought forth a piece of paper from her folder, making as if to hand it to the former of the two. America took it, but before Namibia let go, she placed her other hand over his.

"Welcome to the end of the Modern Era," she declared quietly and very seriously. "And the beginning of the Hybrid Era. Take care of my people."

"Namibia, what are you—"

Namibia let go of the paper.

A lot of things happened at once.

Namibia and Botswana collapsed, the former falling down to the floor. America jolted backwards, feeling as if he'd been struck by lightning, almost falling out of his chair. Lerek launched to her feet, chair clattering to the ground behind her as she rushed to her nation.

As abruptly as it had begun, everything cleared. America blinked several times, trying to adjust to this new sensation tingling in his veins. Lerek was saying something he couldn't quite make out, and he ignored her for the time being. Taking several deep breaths, he shook himself, realizing that he was holding the armrest of his chair in a death grip and had crushed it into a handprint. Letting go slowly, he leaned forwards, rubbing a hand over his face as a cold wash of realization washed over him. This had happened to him many times before. He knew what the two nations had done.

"Oh, God," he murmured. "God, why, why, why…"

"Sir? America?" Lerek questioned, and now he could understand her. He looked up to see her looking at him worriedly.

"They're dead," he declared solemnly. Lerek paled, and without verbally questioning his declaration, knelt down by Namibia's body, placing two fingers on the side of her neck. After a good half a minute, she stood again, looking shocked, and repeated the process with Botswana.

With shaky fingers, America unfolded the paper. As he expected, it was a page long of declarations that basically ceded all land to his country and disbanded their governments once it passed into America's hands.

But Namibia and Botswana were dead. That wasn't supposed to happen. The people still considered themselves Namibians and Botswanans, so their nations couldn't die. Right?

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Lerek whispered. "Sir, what happened?"

America put the paper down on the table, not wanting to look at it any longer.

"I don't know." He shrugged helplessly. "I really don't know."

* * *

[1]- An actual ship under construction that is expected to be completed in 2024.

* * *

**Prominent Alliances Throughout the Story:**

North Atlantic Treaty Organization "NATO" (Founded 1949): Current 2020 members, Ukraine, Macedonia, New Order Venezuela

Association of Southeast Asian Nations "ASEAN" (Founded 1967): Indonesia, Thailand, Singapore, Malaysia, the Philippines, Vietnam, Cambodia, Myanmar (Burma), Brunei, Laos

African Elites "The Elites" (Founded 2032): Ethiopia, Somalia, Eritrea, Djibouti

Hybrid Energy Research Association "HERA" (Founded 2034): United States of America, United Kingdom, Italy, Spain (2043), Iceland (2045)

New South American Order "NSAO" (Founded 2040): New Order Venezuela, Brazil, Argentina

Cuba's New Order "Cuba's Order" (Founded 2043): Cuba, Colombia

Deep Sea Alliance "DSA" (Founded 2044): Australia, New Zealand, South Africa


	2. Decade

**1000 Hours; March 15, 2042**

**London, United Kingdom**

"Blergh."

Alfred F. Jones, more commonly known as The United States of America, slumped down on the couch, face flushed and looking overall miserable as England entered his home. Dressed in his old World War II Air Force jacket and a regular pair of jeans, he looked to be very much the 21-year-old young man he was, if not a year or two younger. England, also known as Arthur Kirkland, hardly even reacted when he came in to see that his former colony had commandeered his living room (again), instead setting down his groceries in the kitchen before returning and pulling out a chair to sit in. Clicking open his phone, he scrolled through a couple texts from the King and Chancellor of the Exchequer[1], answering a couple and putting in a couple new events into his calendar, he turned to the younger male.

"Another recession?" He asked disinterestedly. Alfred moaned into the couch cushions in assent. Well, at least Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland were up in Glasgow for the weekend. He wasn't in the mood to be dealing with both Scotland and America at once.

"How did you deal with this?" The younger man asked, rolling to face the ceiling. Arthur shrugged, looking through the current news. "I just can't get this migraine to go away!"

"When it happened to me, I was currently trying to rebuild from fighting Nazi Germany, so the pain kind of blended together. Toughen up, chap."

"You're no help at all."

Arthur shrugged. Sure, on one hand, he felt bad for Alfred. Losing one's superpower status never was very pleasant. But he honestly thought that his younger brother was being a tad overdramatic about the whole thing. America's lessening of power had been pretty gradual and very peaceful after WWIII. The prime reason, everyone knew, was because he'd been late to pick up hybrid energy and replace his modern technology. By the time America had started issuing hybrid energized cars, the UK had already made it a staple of public transportation for the better part of three years.

"What brings you to my place again?" He asked. Alfred shrugged.

"I was visiting Madrid to see Spain. You know how he's been considering joining our alliance, right? I just thought I'd pop by."

"How'd that go, by the way?"

"He's considering it. Nothing's certain yet, though."

Arthur hummed, closing his eyes in frustration and letting out a long breath to disperse it. Not many nations had been interested in joining their alliance, which America had appropriately named the Hybrid Energy Research Association, or HERA[2]. It was much easier just to accept that Hybrid Energy existed and harness it to make more and more advanced weaponry. When the Italies and America had founded the faction, he had been the only one to join, having done so a year ago. Spain had been showing interest in helping for several months now, but the slow pace at which he debated whether to or not was just as promising as it was infuriating.

"ASEAN revealed a new technology a couple days ago," Alfred announced abruptly, drawing Arthur out of his thoughts. There was a tinge of jealousy to the younger's voice. "Have you heard? They've developed a near-perfect brand of night-vision contact lenses."

"Yes, I have," Arthur nodded. It was another addition to the list. Along with his own MBT[3], Iran had developed a sort of rock-like uniform for their army. China had developed water filters to make his rivers drinkable and less polluted. Even the African Elites had found a way to use it to fertilize the soil in their country, resulting in very high crop yields. "Yet we have no idea where it originated from."

"And no one cares!" Alfred exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. He groaned a moment later, the intensity of it no doubt triggering his migraine.

"Do you want some green tea[4]?"

"Nope."

Arthur rolled his eyes. Alfred definitely had his own "special" brand of patriotism. "How's your spidertech coming along?" He asked instead.

"Alright. We're almost done fusing it with hybrid energy. You?"

"I have a meeting with The Elites this evening. We're trying out that new form of communication. Want to come see it?"

"My plane leaves at three, sorry. It's about time I get home, anyways." Alfred made an overdramatic sigh, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and sitting up.

"Want to get lunch before you go?" Arthur offered with a slight smile. "There's this really good deli that's opened up a couple blocks down. I've been meaning to go there for a long while now."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You want to feed me?"

Arthur stood, rolling his eyes again. "Don't make me change my mind."

"Fine! I'm coming!" Alfred laughed. Arthur chuckled to himself, putting his phone in his pocket. Together, they left the house to get lunch.

* * *

**1658 Hours; March 15, 2042**

**London, England**

England strode into the meeting room, papers in hand. Letting out a breath, he surveyed the room before him. The room was semi-sectioned off into five parts, each (save for the section England had entered) with a glass orb fastened to the intersection of the wall. England's section, on the other hand, only had a chair, which he sat in, and a small table where he placed his papers.

"Sir?" He looked behind him to see one of his secretaries peeking in through the door. "The meeting will begin in ninety seconds."

"Thank you," England nodded, shuffling his papers as she closed the door behind him. America had left for D.C. several hours earlier after practically eating him out of house and home (sadly, losing his superpower status had not taken away the boy's abnormal strength—which required a fast metabolism to keep up). Now he almost wished his younger brother was here to witness this meeting. His country had been working alongside the African Elites for over three years now developing it, and he was quite proud of it as it was.

There was a chime overhead, and England looked up to see that the glass orbs had started glowing, signaling the beginning of the meeting. All at once, the orbs projected holograms of the four African Elites, each sitting in a differently styled desk, each still in their respective country, sputtered into being. Unlike the modern era, with its 2-D, black-and-white holograms, these were fully sized and colored. It was by no means a perfect system (yet), with grainy coloring and pixelated forms resembling 80's TV, but a vast improvement compared to the technology of a mere decade ago. Expanding on the biometrics field of the modern era, only those who were authorized for the meeting could enter these chambers. Only five existed in the world—one for each country in the room—and it used a special wavelength and technology that made it almost impossible to hack into. In another decade or so, the need to move around to attend World Meetings and the like would fade into the distant past as this "Unique Way," as the developers had code-worded it, replaced transportation.

The African Elites certainly seemed to be doing well in the year since England had last seen them. 16-year-old Djibouti was positively glowing, staring at the rest of them with ill-concealed awe at the technology he was using. 25-year-old Somalia, sitting cross-legged in a western-style suit, smirked in pride. Ethiopia, who had opted to wear a more African outfit, looked much the 32 years he really was, which, along with his actual age of 2,500, made him the eldest in the room. Eritrea, at 24, was the youngest of the three siblings, sitting in a white-and-gold dress.

"Good evening to all of you," he greeted amiably. "I see that at least Djibouti can see me." The youngest in the room ducked his head in embarrassment. "Can the rest of you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Ethiopia smiled as the other three nations voiced their assent. The eldest in the room couldn't keep the awe out of his voice. "I'm just astonished that this actually worked."

"Hopefully it'll become more widespread with time. America and Italy both are very close to having their own chambers installed," England replied. "Thank you for cooperating with us to make these advances possible." What he didn't add, and what the other three knew, was that in exchange for receiving the technology, the Elites had not gotten the ability to generate their own signals. To make a long story short, Britain, and later America or Italy, had to be present for a meeting like this to take place.

"This is great and all," Somalia drawled, twisting a lock of her hair around one finger. "But I'm sure you didn't summon us here just to test out this new tech of yours."

"Correct," England nodded. "We—that is, NATO—are becoming quite concerned with the Democratic Republic of the Congo; we are also hoping to discuss the advances of hybrid energy in naval technology."

"You're referring to the construction of our own navy?" Eritrea put in, raising an eyebrow. Despite her half-accusatory words, there was a definite tinge of pride to her voice. "The construction of our four elite naval ships."

"As we announced in the last World Meeting," Ethiopia continued. "One will go to each of us. I will receive the YBHM[5] _Morningside_. Eritrea will get the SIWI _Enterprise_. Djibouti will get the ND _Dike_ , and Somalia the MQS _Safeguard_. Construction will be finished around mid-2044."

"I'm more concerned about the DRC," Djibouti changed the subject once his friend had finished, fingers tapping on his armrest. "He's starting to frighten a lot of people here in Central Africa. What's going on over there?"

"The DRC has one of the highest hybrid energy usage rates in the world," England answered the teenager. "He's going fairly crazy with it and just overwhelming his people. Some are reporting that he is abusing it, restricting their access to the new technology, especially with the new hybrid energy-type cars."

"I wish I could say that I was surprised," Eritrea sighed, folding her arms. "The DRC's been under an semi-dictatorship for decades, and the corruption there is institutionalized. Their leaders care little for the public."

"Surely their nation has some sway in these matters. The DRC's representative is a personification of the people and land. Surely he will not side with his government. You are the superpowers of Africa; have you heard from him?"

"No." Ethiopia shook his head. "Not a word. The DRC's never been very social. I don't even know his human name."

"Well, I speak for NATO when I say that we fear that Africa will return to its state at the turn of the century. Africa has a chance to shine; we'd like to advise you to consider interfering with the situation. You have the power here. I would suggest sanctions or even direct intervention if the situation is dire enough."

"I understand where you're coming from, but we cannot just police the continent like that. You forget that we're still recovering from World War III. Can't you or America do something about this? It certainly hasn't stopped you before."

England's eye twitched. "The rest of Africa looks up to you, the Elites," he responded curtly. "If NATO got involved, we'd be seen as outsiders, perhaps even colonizers. You are currently only seen as regional powers; you can use that to your advantage here."

Ethiopia leaned forwards, making as if to respond, but Eritrea cut him off before he could speak. "We can watch over the land and do our best to aid him indirectly," she compromised. "We will only directly intervene if we have no other choice." She shot her elder brother a look. "Like Namibia and Botswana, he may share a link with New Abyssinia."

The mood darkened. The sudden deaths of the two nations had caught the world off guard, and although there was video evidence to attest to America's innocence, the much of the world had yet to relax around him.

"It's been an honor to test this technology, England," Somalia nodded. Ethiopia muttered something to himself, too quiet for the rest of them to hear. "We hope to see you soon."

"Likewise," England nodded. "Do what you think is best, and NATO will support you."

Ethiopia nodded, farewells were exchanged, and the meeting ended.

* * *

**March 18, 2042**

**Addis Ababa, Ethiopia**

_Merille crashed into the ground, rolling in the dry dirt before rolling to a stop. Hot, sticky blood trickled down the left side of his face, and he groaned, struggling to stand once again. A yellow-orange mist surrounded him, preventing him from seeing anything but the rocky ground around him. Gritting his teeth, he barely managed to get to his hands and knees, feeling as weak as he did in the years after New Abyssinia had taken power._

" _It's over now, brother!" A voice boomed out from the mist. Merille looked up in time to see Ezana, larger than life, emerge from the mist, looming over him with an evil, triumphant grin. "The world has fallen; all that remains is your own death!"_

_A foot flashed out of nowhere, and Merille couldn't find it in himself to dodge the limb, forced to take the blow to the chest that sent him sprawling onto his back._

" _I told you this day would come! My patience has served me well. Farewell, brother!"_

_Merille could do nothing but watch, absolutely nothing as Ezana, grin still splitting his face, placed a foot on his chest, and pointed a gun at his forehead—_

_~.o0O0o.~_

Merille jolted awake, sweat streaming down his face as he sat upwards, gasping for breath. His elder brother's laugh echoed in his ears, his wound only a phantom pain from the scar on his temple. He'd had a nightmare. Again.

Something was on his face. Merille frowned, pulling away a thin tablet, now damp with his sweat. Squinting at it to try and make out the now gunked-up words, he realized that it was some trade agreements he was making with Australia. What in the world…?

He looked around, finding himself in his office, the sun in the window behind him making its swift descent to the horizon. Below him, Addis Ababa was just passing rush hour, cars trickling away and lights beginning to twinkle on as the sky darkened.

Merille groaned, running a hand over his face and rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake up. He must've fallen asleep again while filling out paperwork again. His nights hadn't been very stable since New Abyssinia had killed him and fled the scene. He wished that he could say that his last nightmare was an anomaly.

"Merille?" The door to his office opened, and the African nation looked up to see a young Native American boy step through the door, a tablet tucked under one arm. He looked up, seeing his elder friend's face, and a look of understanding dawned on his features. "Oh… did you fall asleep? Was it that dream again?"

"I'm fine," Merille sighed, standing up and stretching. "What brings you here at this time, Manuel? I thought you'd be on your way to see Somalia by now."

"Well, Layla's research team made some really impressive breakthroughs on the VEV virus this morning," the American state of New Mexico explained, running a hand through his hair as he sat down in one of the free seats. "She asked me to stay and help them out on figuring out the data for a couple days. Dad said it was fine, and Virginia doesn't mind staying a little longer, so… yeah. Still here."

"That's great." Merille tried to smile, but it was strained. It'd taken the better part of the last decade for Manuel to convince his father to let him visit the African Elites, and when he had, he'd assigned Virginia (who, his own opinion, was utterly terrifying in her own right) to watch over him. It'd been amazing to have him over, but Merille had had less time than he'd hoped to spend with his much younger friend. Not only did he have to attend those "Unique Way" meetings with the rest of his alliance and the UK, but he was also working with Layla Bekele (a scientist who had spied for the rebels during WWIII and afterwards had come to be one of the most talented and prominent researchers in Africa) to try and cure the remnants of New Abyssinia's super soldiers. Now without the dictator to command their every move, the super soldiers were simply milling about, unresponsive to friends and family unless being given orders. It was a heartbreaking remnant of the war that the African Elites and the UN had been working to cure for the last decade, but reversing the disease was proving to be a much more difficult endeavor than simply providing a vaccine for it.

"You sure you're alright?" Manuel looked at him worriedly, snapping Merille out of his thoughts.

"Yeah…" he muttered, quickly trying to shuffle his papers into some semblance of organization. "Just dreams."

"You want to talk about it?"

Him, talking to a child less than a tenth of his age for therapy? As much as he liked the kid, Merille certainly didn't feel comfortable doing that with his own family, much less an American state.

"Thanks, but I'm good."

Manuel shrugged. "Dreams can be very strange when they want to be, especially recurring ones. I'd know." Merille sent the child a questioning look, but Manuel didn't elaborate. Instead, he swiftly changed the subject. "Anyways, something's been bothering me. About Namibia's last words. New Abyssinia giving rise to a new Africa and all that. Do you think she had a point there?"

Merille sighed, lifting his shoulders as he leaned back. "She was right in that regard, I suppose. In the last decade our economies have boomed even as we struggle with the repercussions of the war. The other African Elites and I, as you know, have long surpassed Nigeria and South Africa as the dominant powers in the continent. All thanks to Hybrid Energy. I suppose the big question now is how long we can maintain it, and if Africa really can become fully developed."

"And no one knows that for sure," Manuel finished, looking somewhat satisfied. He took a couple steps and placed the file on Merille's desk. "Here. You can look at it tomorrow."

"It's only 1900," Merille replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure I can look over it before I turn in for the night."

Manuel's eyes twinkled, even as his face remained mostly expressionless. "Layla's invited us to dinner with some of the researchers. You have to come!" He stressed the last word, as if doing so would convince him to take a night off.

Merille sighed, knowing his boss would be upset with him up and leaving without warning, but in the end decided that he needed to spend at least some time with Manuel before he left. Standing up, he cracked his back and stretched.

"Aw, what the heck. Let's go."

* * *

[1]- The person in charge of the UK's economy and finances. Basically, it's a position equivalent to the Finance Minister.

[2]- A reference to the Greek goddess Hera, the goddess of birth. They're trying to figure out what "birthed" Hybrid Energy, so I thought it was a funny coincidence.

[3]- Mini Barrier Technology, from the last book

[4]- A tea known for helping relieve migraine symptoms

[5]- Made up abbreviations for the African Elites' navy, since I couldn't find any online. The abbreviations are, in order (Abbreviation—Native language/Latin script/English):

YBHM—የኢትዮጵያ ባሕር ኃይል መርከብ/Ye'ītiyop'iya Baḥiri Hayili Merikebi/Ethiopian Naval Ship

SIWI—سفينة إبحار واقية إريترية/Safinat 'Iibhar Waqiat 'Iirytria/Eritrean Protective Sailing Ship

ND—Navire Djibouti/Djibouti Navy Ship

MQS—Markabka Qaranka Soomaaliyeed/National Somali Ship


	3. Shift

**June 30, 2042**

**Caracas, New Order Venezuela**

"So…" Alfred mused, mouth half full with the Arepas[1] he'd ordered for lunch. He chewed and swallowed before continuing. "This mist… fog… whatever. It hasn't gone away?"

Elisa Paez, or the country of New Order Venezuela, nodded, eating her own Arepas more slowly and politely.

"No," she replied, looking out the window of the little café that they'd taken a spot in. Looking past the construction in the city that was replacing many of modern-era buildings with hybrid ones, and the cars that lacked wheels and simply hovered a foot or so off the ground, there was a slight gray fog winding its way across the ground and floating through the air. "We have no idea where it's coming from. We suspect hybrid energy to be the cause, but you can never be sure. It hasn't really been anything but a nuisance, but it's been a decade and nothing has changed."

"Venezuela suggested that you might be able to help," Mauro Duarte, or Brazil (a darker skinned man with curly dark brown hair) added in, picking at his own food but not eating. "You were crucial in helping China clear his air pollution. I know that was during the modern era, but you're the closest guy to having any kind of experience with this that we've got."

Alfred shrugged. Elisa kept her eyes on the elder man for a moment before taking another bite, tapping her fingers on the table.

Besides Africa, of course, South America had been the region to profit the most off of the Hybrid Revolution of the past decade. Venezuela had found herself the regional leader of the continent, with Brazil slowly beginning to catch up behind her. Caracas had become, in her own humble opinion, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, long recovered from the country's depression under socialism in the early 2000's. She'd even started her own alliance, the New South American Order (or the NSAO), just two years earlier. Both Argentina (currently going through a peaceful set of reforms to root out her rather rampant corruption and thus unable to come to this meeting) and Brazil had joined. They still remained very close to NATO, with Venezuela remaining part of the alliance, but preferred to stay as their own entity to protect their interests in South America.

"I'll do my best," Alfred conceded, nearly finished with his lunch. "But I can't promise much at this point." His eyes perked up, as if remembering something. "Hey, Aren't you excited for 2044?! The UN's finally approved you to host the Olympics!"

Elisa blushed furiously as Mauro smiled softly. "You were… very kind," she mumbled back a reply. Alfred grinned.

The 2044 Summer Olympics had originally been planned to be hosted in Richmond, Virginia, but due to recent events (namely America's annexation and the mysterious deaths of Namibia and Botswana), he'd given up his bid on hosting two years earlier. He'd instead sponsored Caracas as the city to host, much to the rest of the world's shock. America had helped a lot in securing the Olympics for her capital, and Venezuela couldn't help but feel grateful for it. With the rapid reconstruction of the city, the companies necessary already been in town to build the Olympic Village and other venues, and the attention would hopefully aid the economy and help the NSAO as whole gain more worldwide recognition. That was honestly just the kind of person Alfred was, and why she thought so highly of him.

But as much as Venezuela was grateful to her northern ally, she couldn't help but feel like something was up. Alfred wasn't typically a manipulative person, but something seemed off about how he had been so eager to change locations at the last minute. Brazil had even initially been against accepting the offer out of suspicion. But she'd taken it, and it seemed whatever had prompted America to make this odd decision seemed to be a strictly internal affair.

Still, she worried a bit. She quite liked Alfred as a person and liked to think that they were friends now, and knew that the American was a lot more clever than he tended to let to let on.

"My people and I are very excited," she admitted. Alfred finished the last of his arepas and leaned back. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"No problemo!"

Mauro rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Can we expect your teams soon?"

"Definitely," Alfred nodded. "Now, I'm spying some rather curious onlookers who've been staring at us for the last couple moments. I move to leave before we get stormed by the paparazzi. Again."

This time Mauro did laugh.

"You are a bit of an odd one, Alfred," he remarked, standing. Alfred and Elisa followed suit.

"We can go over to my place," Elisa offered. "There we can finish up the specifics…"

* * *

**January 4, 2043**

**Havana, Cuba**

"You know, if you really just wanted to complain about the new world order, I would've just called you over the phone," Carmen Paez, or Columbia, huffed, shifting in her seat. She and Carlos Machado, the personification of Cuba, were sitting in the Cuban's living room, which consisted of several lavish sofas and a television. The latter of the two was taking a drag on whatever the newest strain of cigarettes were these days, while the former sat across from him, relaxed.

Cuba shot the South American a deadpan look.

"I'm not _complaining_ ," he huffed, shooting Columbia a long-suffering look.

"Yes, you are," Came her reply. "I mean, I get it. We're all a little bit upset that Venezuela is refusing to accept us into the NSAO. But if you're only going to complain, I might as well have stayed home."

"You're _insufferable_."

Columbia grinned. "That's kind of my job these days, my friend. Now, what do you really want to discuss with me?"

Cuba took a long drag before continuing, now much more serious.

"Loathe as I am to admit it, I do believe that my… complaints about Venezuela has been a factor in me asking you to come," He admitted. "Though I would like to believe that the consequences of doing nothing about our current situation would be rather dire. Ever since World War III… no, ever since her revolution, Venezuela's been getting all close and cuddly with America. Trade deals, joining NATO, fighting in World War III itself, even forming the NSAO. It's all aimed at forming closer ties with America. I'm honestly astonished that Brazil and Argentina are just going along with it."

"Why am I hearing this again?" Columbia questioned, shifting in her seat. "You forget how well I know my little sister. I did raise her, you know. She obviously has a crush on America. A passing phase. She's only gone this far in acting on it because it's beneficial to her people."

"Perhaps it's only a passing crush, but it's having long-lasting consequences. Just look at the NSAO. America may not be a superpower any longer, but he's most certainly a regional one, and their exclusive trading deals with him have been specifically targeted to leave us out. I mean, they think they can get rid of this fog with just a couple American scientists. They don't even realize the full extent of America's fall."

Colombia blinked, mildly surprised. "Full extent?"

Cuba took another drag, raising an eyebrow at her. "I'm not surprised you don't know. His government's keeping it very hush-hush. You remember when America gave up his bid to host the Olympics?"

"And gave it Venezuela? It's hard not to forget."

"He didn't host it because he couldn't afford it."

Colombia froze. America couldn't… afford it? That was like saying the sky was pink. "America" and "not affordable" just didn't go in the same sentence.

Cuba pressed on once it was apparent she wasn't going to respond. He placed his phone flat on the table, where it projected the files proving his claim into the air.

"America went deep into debt funding the war against New Abyssinia. Unlike the last few wars, he couldn't just make a profit selling weapons or supplies; he was putting in more manpower and tech into the fight than any other country, save for the African nations involved, of course. His losses, especially in the first couple years, were just as high. The loss of PXT 2020 was especially devastating." Cuba waved a hand, and the files changed. "Post-war, most of his time was and is spent rebuilding Africa—the Allies burned down a lot more villages than they saved, and Algeria, Libya, and Egypt weren't going to be able to make the postwar years without heavy foreign investment."

Finally Columbia found her voice. "And Europe?"

"A bit too caught up in the Hybrid Revolution to really notice. Save for Spain and Germany, they didn't really help out."

Despite the situation, Columbia couldn't help but be impressed. Even if it had cost him more than met the eye, America had funded WWIII and just afterwards buoyed the economies of Northern Africa almost entirely with the force of his own. It was honestly impressive.

Meanwhile, Cuba continued his explanation.

"And with other countries finding little reason to invest in or loan money to him—the annexation of Namibia and Botswana dented America's GDP and it has yet to reach prewar levels—he's starting to flounder. Thus giving up the Olympics and having such exclusive trading deals with HERA and NSAO. It costs millions that he just doesn't have. At this point he's taking what he can get."

"How did you get this information?" Columbia questioned, feeling quite intimidated. "I mean, there have been rumors about America's financial problems, but those have been popping up ever since the 1890s. And who exactly knows?"

"Besides the American Government? A defector passed this information on to me, so him, my president, me, you, and probably Italy Romano if America's investments in Libya back when it was still an Italian colony are anything to go by."

"And why tell me?"

Cuba took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked some ashes into the ashtray.

"The NSAO have tied themselves to a crumbling nation. America may or may not recover; right now, whether he does doesn't matter." He grinned, eyes flashing with an emotion Columbia couldn't identify. "There's a vacuum in South America now. Venezuela's being highly selective with who she trades with, America's paralyzed, and half of Central America is still running on modern technology. Mexico and Peru are floundering as they combat the cartels and corruption."

"You haven't answered my question."

"You and I form a new alliance. A New Order, you could say. We offer Latin America a second option to combat capitalism. We aid Latin America, gain enough power to combat the NSAO, and profit. Simple enough. We don't have to be weak, Columbia. With Hybrid Energy, any country can become a world power."

Columbia paused. It was tempting, she had to admit. Peru and Mexico weren't the only ones struggling against the drug cartels, and a chance to profit and stop the problem, coming on a silver platter like this? It seemed almost too good to be true.

And it was. There were certainly risks. Forming an alliance to rival the NSAO would drastically increase tensions across the continent, and if Cuba was lying about the US or they didn't get influence over Latin America, then everything would fall apart.

But what was world politics—and life in general—without a little risk?

"Very well," she relented, holding out a hand. Cuba shook it. "I'll go along with this if my government can validate this information. But keep in mind, I have my own plans and like to go through with them without much interference."

"As long as we are both willing to sacrifice," Cuba replied. "First off, I have a plan to remove this fog. I have to admit, however, some nations will hate us for what I plan to do, and it is riskier than most of my ideas, but if it works it'll get us an immediate foothold in South America."

Something twinged in Columbia's stomach, almost like a warning, but she ignored it.

"Tell me what to do, and I'll consider it."

* * *

**April 19, 2043**

**RAAF Base Williamtown, Australia**

Australia, or Jett Kirkland (whichever name you prefer) grinned, adjusting the collar of his uniform as he strode down the runway of the national military base. Wearing the standard blue camouflage that had become the staple of the RAAF[2] and a pair of sunglasses to protect himself from the sharp fall sunlight, he, to the casual onlooker, just seemed to be another soldier off to fly in the training run scheduled in an hour or so.

Humming to himself, the 20-year-old male waved to some passing officers as he approached a large warehouse at the end of one of the runways. Standing perhaps 50 meters in front of him were two more men. The first was a 17-year-old teenager who looked much too young to be given access to the current area where they stood, but his navy blue commander's uniform, stapled with several World War II era medals fastened to the front, singled him out as Zachary Kirkland, Jett's younger adoptive brother and the personification of New Zealand. The second was another of his (many) adoptive siblings, an African woman in a uniform similar to New Zealand's, save for a short-sleeved shirt and folded hat.

"Mella! Zach!" Jett waved to them, skipping a step and speeding up to meet his siblings. Zach shook his head, laughing shortly to himself as Jett approached, while Melokuhle Gumede (South Africa) just rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "What's up?"

"My economy," Zach shot back, a twinkle in his eye. He and Jett embraced shortly before Jett caught his brother in a chokehold, forcing him to bend over.

"Last I checked we completely destroyed you in our last rugby game, Kiwi," he shot back as Zach struggled, finally stomping on Jett's foot and forcing him to let go.

"We're at a military base," Zach huffed, re-adjusting his hat. "Do you always have to do that?"

Jett stuck out his tongue. "You started it."

"You two really haven't changed, have you?" Mella chuckled, rolled her eyes. "Absolutely no regard for protocol, and always finding a way to one-up the other."

"Aw, love you too, sis."

"I won the Mandela Challenge Plate[3], too, so stop bullying Zach. You have nothing to say."

Jett narrowed his eyes at his sister. "Okay, that's a low blow. Next time I'm pulling ahead, you know that."

Mella scoffed. "In your dreams, domkop[4]. Now, what's this new invention of yours that I'm hearing so much about? I'm sure you're dying to show it off to me."

Jett grinned, gesturing to the warehouse. "It's right in there. My pride and joy: the Hybrid Meridian 3200. The finest machine I've ever pioneered, and the first Hybrid Energy aircraft meant for long distance travel. And we want you to help us test it."

Mella let out a long breath as they began walking down the runway once again and towards the holding building for the plane.

"It's only a prototype," Zach said. "The only one we have right now. Jett and I had to work _together_ —" he emphasized the word, sending Jett a look. "For over four years to build it. I know you can understand why we don't want to risk losing it."

"It'd be an honor," Mella replied with a friendly smile as they approached the warehouse. Jett flashed his keycard at a guard standing by a regular-sized door off to the side, and he nodded firmly, opening the door for them. "The African Elites have taken all the glory for the continent. It's about time I change that."

They entered the warehouse. Inside, there were several offices and trolleys off to the left, most likely for those in charge of the project and supplying it. To the right was the main chamber, hosting the HM-32, as his people had abbreviated it. It was a sleek plane, not dissimilar to the modern-era jets that most of the world powers still used. However, small tubes lined the outside of the jets, glowing a faint neon blue, with dark spots appearing and disappearing every few seconds. The last of its paint job was being applied, the Australian and New Zealand flags halfway finished as a man carefully painted them on. Mella whistled lowly.

"It is a beauty," she said, taking it in. Jett grinned.

"Yes it is! Now, let me show you the specifics of it."

* * *

**April 28, 2043**

**Leh, India**

Leh was a small city situated in a high-altitude valley, largely cut off from the world. The frosty Himalayan mountains that rose above the city gave a rustic, homely feel to it. In the Old Town was an old Tibetan-style palace above a bustling bazaar, which could just be seen around the bend of the mountain. As night fell, the lights made it seem as if the city housed embers of a smokeless fire, reaching to the starry sky.

But, if one looked out into one of the smaller, neighboring valleys, they would see a large mining operation taking place. Buildings, hardly a decade old, had sprung up over the area, giving the region an industrial-era look, save for the perpetual smog the had dominated the 19th century. The side of one of these particular mountains had been carved out, and carefully, blocks of black stone, laced with lines of red, were being removed from the mountain.

In a building near these warehouses, close enough to see the operations taking place there, was a young woman. She seemed to be around 19 or 20 years old, and had light brown skin and dark brown hair that lightened near the front (though most of it was covered by a hijab). She wore the common miner's uniform, a bright orange overcoat and cargo pants, as well as white gloves, and was sitting near a window, watching the mining outside almost intensely. She was alone.

And then she wasn't. The door opened, and Rana Jindal entered, dressed in a black dress shirt and slacks. His eyes fell on the young woman, and he scowled for a moment before schooling his features to erase the anger from his expression, closing the door behind him. The woman did not acknowledge his presence.

"Kashmir, I do hope you can explain your way out of this fiasco," India huffed, crossing his arms as he strode towards the woman. As he spoke, her eyes flickered over to him, then back to the mining continuing outside.

"I have an explanation," The Indian territory of Jammu and Kashmir replied softly, clasping her hands together. "I just doubt that it will please you."

India's expression flickered towards a darker anger, but he forced it back down again. "You know, it would do you well to answer one of my questions in a straightforward manner for once. My shipments of Mortantite[5] have stopped, yet, as you can see, the mining operation here is still operating at full capacity. You are also here, instead of at New Delphi like I requested."

Kashmir's lips twitched upwards. "Indeed I am."

"You're stealing the shipments."

"I'm taking what is rightfully mine. Or should I go to the UN and tell them that you aren't disposing of the mineral like you said you would?"

India's eyes flashed, and this time it took a visible effort for him to not lash out at his state. "What I do on my land is none of their concern. If we can figure out how to combine Mortantite with hybrid energy, I could become the world's next superpower and—"

"And what?" Kashmir's head whipped towards India, eyes blazing. "Finally destroy Pakistan, like you've desired for so long? Put my people in the midst of another conflict that would kill thousands? Introduce a weapon similar in destruction to the atomic bomb? I don't think so."

"You cannot tell me what I can or cannot do! I kept you out of Pakistan's grasp during the partition, and this is how you repay me?"

"You made me a center for military and terrorist attacks for the better part of a century. Because of you, my people, Muslim and Hindu, are more divided than ever. Only by uniting the two religions by their ethnicity can we begin to deconstruct the hatred between their ideologies."

India shot her an unimpressed look.

"You plan to rely simply on patriotism for this rebellion to succeed?"

"Yes. How else did the West become so powerful? More specifically, America?"

"You will regret this."

"Perhaps. But this is my decision to make, not yours. I will see you at the negotiating table, India."

India scowled. "Jammu and Kashmir, you will rue the day you crossed me."

"Get out of my land." For the first time, Kashmir's voice took on a definite tone of anger. "If you have something to say, we'll see it on the battlefield."

India stood there for a moment, as if considering something, then whipped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

[1]- A traditional Venezuelan dish. It's a flat, round, unleavened patty made from corn flour. It can be fried, grilled or baked. Arepas are filled with a variety of ingredients depending on the region and style of the cook.

[2]- Royal Australian Air Force

[3]- The Nelson Mandela Challenge Plate is a rugby union trophy contested between Australia and South Africa.

[4]- South African slang meaning "idiot."

[5]- The explosive mineral from the last book has finally been named. I gave it the name Mortantite: Mort- from Mortis, is a Latin prefix meaning death; Antaka, a Sanskrit word referring to the God of Death; and –ite, the traditional end for a mineral name.


	4. Third World Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. I hope this chapter is worth it! Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

**July 11, 2043**

**Ituri Rainforest, Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC)**

War was on the horizon. Literally and figuratively.

Ezana Tesfa, the personification of no nation, shaded his eyes against the bright, hot sun of the African rainforest as he drove through the dirt-paved road on a hoverbike, making sure that he kept the noise down to a minimum as he rode. Beside him, the Uele River carved a path through the densely packed forest, letting in the golden rays of the noonday sun, which was every now and again covered by a rogue cloud.

A small clearing opened up along the side of the road, and Ezana slowed his bike as he came across a small village of perhaps two or three dozen people. They didn't seem to be in very good shape. Some of the men held early modern rifles and spears, which were quickly pointed at him, and the women hurriedly gathered the children who had been playing outside into huts. All were very short, few being over one and a half meters tall.

"I come in peace," He announced, getting off his bike. The men looked at him suspiciously. "I am Ras Täfäri. You know of me."

A ripple went through the people, an almost inaudible gasp of surprise following. One of the younger men, just into his early twenties and taller than the rest, walked to the front of the group, placing the butt of his rifle to the ground and kneeling. The rest of the village followed. Ezana shook his head.

"You know I don't need this kind of respect from you, Dikembe," he said, raising an eyebrow amiably. The man in front chuckled, and the two embraced before parting. Dikembe Bokondj turned to the other villagers and nodded, reassuring them of the visitor's trustworthiness.

"You've been safe?" He asked as Ezana took a large bag out of its place in the back of the hoverbike. He nodded with a quick smile. Several children peeked their heads out from a straw hut.

"As the most wanted man alive can be," he chuckled, before turning to one of the other men, gesturing to his bag. "I've brought supplies."

The man's eyes brightened, and he stood. "Thank you, Ras Täfäri. We are in your debt."

"It's the least I can do for allowing my friend to stay with you."

"The war has prevented us from trading with the farmers as we usually do," the man said. "Any supplies you can give us are greater than any service we can give to you."

"Here." He opened the bag, revealing small bars of military packets, seeds to plant, and a small cooler. "I've also brought vaccines for the children: Measles, Cholera, Malaria, and HIV. Once Dikembe and I are done speaking, I'll administer the needed doses to them."

"We will tell of your services for generations." The man took the bag reverently, and passed it to one of the women. Arm in arm, they went off to the rest of the villagers. Ezana turned back to The Democratic Republic of the Congo once he was gone, steering the two of them out of sight.

"Now I must ask you, are you sure _you_ are alright?" He asked, shooting him a knowing look. "This war is my fault, and we've always been close. I can't… I can't lose you, too."

Dikembe shook his head with a smile, and placed a hand on Ezana's shoulder. "You have nothing to fear, my friend. I'm not going anywhere yet. After all of this is over, our paths will be set in stone, and the dice will start to roll."

"And we'll just have to hope they fall in our favor," Ezana finished the saying that had become his lifeline in the past decade. His lips quirked, as if he wished to smile, but they fell before the expression could take shape.

"Something's bothering you," Dikembe observed. "Is it Alemayehu?"

Ezana shook himself, frowning deeply. "When is it not? Every time that man _sees_ , things just get more and more difficult for us."

"The future tends to be difficult," Dikembe shrugged, resting an arm on the handlebars of the bike. "I think that's the point. We are in the midst of a revolution comparable to the Industrial Era. Things are going to get shaky. What did Alemayehu _see_?"

Ezana sighed, shoulders slumping. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper with scribbled Amharic writing on it.

" _The Hybrid Era has had a permanent effect on the world and how it works_ ," he recited, brown eyes flicking to meet Dikembe's. " _With hybrid energy's levels rising, many countries think they can sustain their consumption rates forever. However, they are blinded by their chances to become a superpower. India, Cuba, and Sudan are the most likely to let their ambition blind them. Make sure that they will be prevented from gathering too much power. But no matter what you do, within the next fifty years, if not much sooner, hybrid energy's levels will reach its limit. And when they do, we will see a war to dwarf that of World War I, II, and III combined. This war is completely unpreventable. You can try to lessen the effects, make sure that the side you support wins, but billions will die, with many nations among them._ "

Ezana paused at the end of the paragraph, and Dikembe ran a hand over his face, taking in a shaky breath.

"That's… hefty," the central African sighed, paling slightly. "No wonder you wrote it down."

"That's only part of the prophecy. It gets worse."

"Well, don't keep me waiting. Tell me, and I can try to figure out a way to help you."

After a moment of hesitation, Ezana nodded and continued. " _To ensure humanity's survival, you must work with four primary alliances: the New South American Order, Hybrid Energy Research Association, African Elites, and the Deep Sea Alliance. Two will fall quickly, while the other half will remain strong. One of the strong alliances is led by your brother, Ethiopia. The other will be the alliance to anticipate this war. The key to winning this war is held in ideology, and whether Order will prevail._ "

Ezana folded the paper closed again while Dikembe rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

"You'll have to work with your brother," he finally said. Ezana scowled, leaning against the bike. "You're going to have to face him eventually."

"Yes, and explain to him why I had to kill twenty million Africans just to bring to pass a war more devastating than we have ever seen."

"You killed twenty-five million men to prevent the fall of humanity. Ezana." Dikembe looked his friend in the eye, completely serious. "When we made this alliance, we agreed that we would bring to pass humanity's survival, no matter what the personal or humanitarian cost. Namibia and Botswana have given their lives as sacrifice. I put my country into a civil war. You started World War III and pushed humanity into the Hybrid Era. There is no backing out now."

Ezana sighed, standing fully once again.

"I don't care for the Europeans or the West," he said heavily. "They could all die for all I care. But—" His eyes flashed. "I do love Africa. We are the homeland of humanity, and we will survive as long as I have breath in my body."

"There's the Ezana I know and love," Dikembe chuckled. "Have a plan as of yet?"

"Sudan will be the easiest to push out of the running for the war. I've already sent men to infiltrate his government. Soon he'll be compelled into a war with South Sudan. Hopefully, the Elites will intervene and bring him down from that pedestal of his."

Dikembe nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Try not to kill either of them. South Sudan is only a child."

"I will do what I must."

* * *

DRC Civil War:

African Elites&DRC Rebels—Safe: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; Mogadishu, Somalia; Djibouti; Asmara, Eritrea. In Danger: N/A Fallen: N/A

Front Lines: Lubumbashi, Kasongo, Mbanza-Ngungu, and Bandundu, DRC

DRC—Safe: Mbandaka, Kisangani, Buta. In Danger: Tshikapa, Kananga. Fallen: Kinshasa, Kamina, Kikwit, Kolwezi.

**January 18, 2044**

**Caracas, New Order Venezuela**

"I'm not sure about this, Cuba. You're risking a war here."

The 23-year-old nation very nearly scoffed, and Colombia could only assume that the reason he didn't was because he didn't want to attract the attention of their aides and security guards nearby. He was fairly relaxed and looked just as confident, contrasting Colombia's own uneasiness with their current situation. It was a meeting of the Organization of American States, currently being held in Venezuela, and Cuba and Colombia were currently on their way there to meet with the rest of the American continents.

"This is the best time to start our plan," Cuba replied after a moment, lowering his voice as they walked through the halls of the governmental building. "The Elites are at war with the DRC; the world is distracted. Don't tell me you're drawing out now. We haven't even started yet."

Colombia stopped in her steps, giving Cuba a look. The Carribean nation took a couple more steps, then finally paused with an aggravated sigh and looked to her, crossing his arms.

"I'm just saying that purposely aggravating the regional powers of the Western Hemisphere might not be the best idea," Colombia continued, making her voice lower as to avoid being overheard. "You know they'll want to know why we did what we did. When you said that we'd take away the fog, you also didn't add that we'd be vaguely hinting at having more advanced technology than them."

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," Cuba huffed. "A strong show of action is the only way to show America and the NSAO that we mean business, and Central America that we are ready and willing to help them. Like I said, America is paralyzed and the world distracted with an actual war. No one will come to the NSAO's aide."

"The last time you were this confident about a political situation, we ended up with the Cuban Missile Crisis."

Cuba _did_ scowl at her this time. His fists tightened. "This is a small window of time, Colombia," he shot back. "And I will do this with or without you."

Colombia said nothing, but that was a concession in and of itself. She was in this now, for better or for worse. Cuba's plan to chip away at the South American fog and disrupt NSAO-USA operations had put a small pit in her stomach since its conception, but now it had grown into a swirling whirlpool of nervousness inside of her. But as much as she disagreed with the plan for its bluntness and risk it posed, she also had to agree that they and other third-world countries stood to gain more than they ever had before from it. And that was tempting. Tempting enough that even as Colombia voiced her reservations, she knew she wasn't about to back out now.

Knowing he had won, Cuba shook his head in what was either exasperation or annoyance and turned around again, hurrying down the hallway. Colombia had to lengthen her stride to meet his (where he was 5'8, she was 5'2) to keep up with him as their bodyguards checked in with the security guards at the checkpoint ahead of them. After being scanned for suspicious weaponry by an electron scanner, they were waved through and entered another short hallway, where a large pair of doors waited, with two more security guard standing watch. Flashing their I.D.'s at them, the guards opened the doors, and the two allies strode inside to the meeting room.

Most of the other nations were already there, and so Colombia found herself and Cuba at the center of attention. The room was rectangularly shaped, with a triangular table in the center of it. The flags of the western hemisphere decorated the front of the room, and several reporters sat in chairs near the back, holding microphones and tablets to take notes. Brazil, acting as Chair of the permanent council, and America, as Vice Chair[1], sat at the front, at the shortest end of the triangle, with the other nations sitting at their assigned places at the longer two sides. Cuba and Colombia were sitting fairly close to each other since the seating was in alphabetical order, with only Costa Rica between them.

Colombia's mouth felt dry as they sat down, and the pit in her stomach was still there, but now she couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement go up her spine. When was the last time she had stood up for herself like this? Now, she was finally doing something about it!

Starting remarks proceeded as usual. Brazil opened discussion with the issue of poverty in Central America first, and she couldn't help but notice how invested Cuba seemed in the discussion, though most of her attention remained on America.

Seeing America for the first time since her alliance with Cuba, Colombia couldn't help but look for the signs of financial strain Cuba had alleged in their meetings in him. Now, she couldn't help but feel that they were being confirmed. America, though invested in the discussion, seemed to avoid the topic of actually doing anything to help fix the issue or making any lasting commitments that involved spending his own resources. In a stark contrast of his policies in the 20th century, he really did seem to be backing off and letting the more regional powers take precedence in the issue. Colombia smiled softly to herself, before announcing her own plans for a more active stance on welfare, well aware of Cuba's gaze on her.

Eventually, the topic closed with a resolution passed that formalized a Colombian, Cuban, Venezuelan, and Mexican agreement to form a special committee to investigate the issue personally, take preliminary measures, and report their findings in the next meeting. Attention turned back to Brazil, who cleared his voice somewhat awkwardly as he addressed the elephant in the room.

"The chair now opens discussions for the topic on the South American fog issue," he announced, sharing a glance with America. A low murmur went through the nations and the reporters behind them. "And alleged Cuban interference in cutting down on the amount of fog in the region."

Venezuela, of course, spoke first.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" She said. As the last nation in alphabetical order, she sat some ways away, on the end of one of the longer sides and next to America. "You have disrupted our operations in Brazil and have etched away at the fog without informing us first."

"First of all," Cuba said after a moment, calm and collected as usual. He did not spare Venezuela a look, instead keeping his eyes on Brazil as he answered the chairman's question. "I can confirm that my nation, as well as Colombia, were involved in removing a portion of the fog, and hope to help more in the future. Secondly, we are under no obligation that I am aware of to inform you of the measures we take to help South America, New Order Venezuela. We are not part of the NSAO nor HERA, and have no ties to you save through the OAS. We will get rid of the fog first, because we have the technology to remove it."

Venezuela's face contracted, and she made as if to respond, but Brazil spoke before she did.

"Cuba and Colombia, what you are doing is causing the rise of Hybrid Energy Levels in the region. You've seen what happened to the DRC; the high levels there are interfering with daily work and the war effort."

"Then perhaps we rely too much on Hybrid Energy," Belize spoke up. Colombia turned towards the Central American nation in mild surprise, but he did not add anything else to his comment, simply leaning back in his chair.

"Or perhaps we are utilizing it in the wrong way," Cuba added. "We used coal as a fuel for electricity before water and wind. What harm is there in trying new things?"

"Quite a bit," Brazil put in, unimpressed. "The NSAO has already agreed to place sanctions on you unless you cease your activities in South America."

Cuba leaned back in his chair, unperturbed at the threat. "What a nasty response. I'm trying to help, and you won't allow it because you didn't allow me into your alliance. Boo-hoo. I, for one, am not aiming for a repeat of history. A single country or two holding all the power in the Western Hemisphere will not happen again."

America shifted, eyes flickering away from the Latin nations, and Brazil scowled at Cuba. Venezuela seemed like she very much wished to punch the Caribbean nation in the face, and Colombia didn't miss how her eyes flickered to America. Poor girl. At this rate she was going to get her heart broken.

"You're leaving too much residue in the environment," Venezuela finally spoke after a moment, voice low. "And we have little idea what long-term effects it will have on it. This is your last warning. Stop trying to take away the fog."

"Try me."

At this the younger nation almost stood, but once again Brazil cut her off.

"We're getting off track," he cut in. Watching the nation, Colombia could see that he was barely restraining his own anger as well. "The chair moves for a private meeting to be organized between Cuba, Colombia, and the NSAO. We won't get any more work done on this subject the way things are now."

"Seconded," Argentina agreed before Venezuela could protest. She frowned, but seemed to calm herself, and in the end said nothing.

"I find those terms agreeable. Colombia and I will await your counsel," Cuba said. Colombia nodded to ascertain her own consent. Brazil nodded, and turned the subject to South American participation in the opening events of the Olympics.

Despite her reservations and knowing the first phase of their plan wasn't over yet, Colombia smiled to herself. She pretended to not see the suspicious and slightly angry looks Venezuela was sending her.

* * *

**March 14, 2044**

**Doruma, DRC**

"This is the best option for us at the moment. Do you think you can go through with it?" Ezana asked, sitting down across from Dikembe. The former authoritarian looked at him with a blank gaze, whatever grief he was surely feeling firmly tucked away where no one could see it, as he did with most of his emotions these days. Beside him, Yessuf Abebe crossed his arms, looking slightly bored, while Alemayehu stood quietly in the back. The man had grown a beard since Dikembe had last seen him, curly black hair extending several inches from his chin and jaw.

"I will have to, won't I?" Dikembe replied, eyes lingering on the _temelikachi_ for a moment longer than was perhaps necessary. The man had always put him on edge; a _temelikachi_ appearing was a sign of great change and danger, and Alemayehu was no different. "According to you."

Alemayehu ducked his head briefly. "I only tell you what I _see_ ," he recited, as he did every time his role as _temelikachi_ came up in conversation. "You decide where to go from there."

Yessuf rolled his eyes discreetly. Though the human believed in _temelikachi_ , he'd always been the one to advocate not blindly following it's advice the most.

"I personally think it's quite stupid," he said with a disinterested shrug. "But you do what you think is best, Congo. You know Ethiopia and the Elites much better than I do, and whether they'll throw you in prison or not."

"They won't," Ezana said vehemently. "Ethiopia won't risk keeping the Congo as a puppet; they'll look too much like a conqueror and promote unrest in the region. But they will be watching you, Dikembe. If you go back, you will have no contact with us, and any minor slip up could ruin our plans."

"I know having someone outside of your influence does not sit well with you," Dikembe replied, ignoring how his old friend made to protest. "And trust me, I don't like being a sleeper agent for a couple decades either, but this is how it has to be. I'll contact Eritrea—she's the most empathetic of the group—and tell her that I protested my government and they tried to capture me. I escaped to here, Doruma, where I remained until I felt well enough and wouldn't risk being found by my current government—" he motioned to his arm, which was in a sling, and subtly to his abdomen, which was covered in wounds but masked by his shirt. "Which was only recently. Simple enough."

"There's no such thing as a simple plan," Yessuf said. Dikembe met his gaze evenly.

"I am more than capable of adjusting to change," he replied evenly.

Ezana let out a long, tired sigh as he stood, Yessuf and Dikembe following. The two nations shook hands, and Ezana briefly kissed Dikembe three times on the cheek[2]. Knowing that such a display of affection was rare for the man, Dikembe did not hesitate to return the gesture.

"Goodbye, my friend," Ezana murmured, walking past him and to the door.

"And to you." Dikembe smiled softly at him, raising a single hand in farewell. Ezana paused, then smiled back, raised his hand for a moment, then was gone into the crowded street, Yessuf and Alemayehu following close behind.

And finally, the Democratic Republic of the Congo was alone with his thoughts.

* * *

**April 2, 2044**

**London, United Kingdom**

Arthur let out a short, shaky breath, messaging his forehead as it throbbed. His vision blurred, and he let out another breath, doing his best to remain upright. Around him, the cool nighttime air of a nearly deserted St James' Park blew gently, and he pulled his coat tighter to protect himself from it.

The former empire gritted his teeth in frustration, stopping by a lightpole to rest for a moment before continuing on. He'd been just fine up until a half an hour or so ago, when this infernal headache had sprung up. Now his whole body felt like it had in the years during and after World War II: shaky, dizzy, and weak. Except this time, Germany wasn't trying to bomb him into oblivion. Nothing of the serious note was happening in his country, nor was anything occurring externally that involved him. Hell, even the war in the Congo was over!

Arthur leaned on the freezing cold pole, cursing his stubbornness for not taking a cab to his home on 10 Downing Street when he'd had the chance. His hands fluttered vaguely towards his earpiece as he thought, briefly considering calling to get picked up before discarding the thought. He was the United Kingdom, for heaven's sake. He could do something as simple as walk himself home.

Then, suddenly, a loud screeching burst into his ears, causing Arthur to cry out in a sudden increase of pain, collapsing to his knees. He looked around himself, but found nothing to suggest that he was being assaulted. That left his country. If something was happening—

The last thing Arthur felt was an immense fear for his people before the world flashed blue, then red, and finally faded into nothing at all.

* * *

[1]- The Nation's OAS meeting is based off of the organization of Permanent Representatives to the OAS. The only change is that Brazil, Venezuela, America, Canada, and Chile rotate through the positions of Chair and Vice Chair. Their roles are to lead the meeting topics and to keep order.

[2]- In Ethiopian culture, two people with a close personal relationship and of the same gender kiss each other three times on the cheek.

Top Regional Powers (In Order and By Continent):

The Americas: (1) U.S.A. (2) New Order Venezuela (3) Brazil (4) Cuba (5) Canada

Europe: Information Unavailable

Africa: (1) Ethiopia (2) Somalia (3) South Africa (4) Algeria (5) Eritrea

Asia: Information Unavailable

Oceania: Information Unavailable


	5. A New Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, but I finally finished the chapter!

**August 1, 2044**

**Caracas, New Order Venezuela**

"I'm telling you, though. It's like the entire mentality of the United Kingdom changed overnight! I’ve tried talking to Arthur, but he keeps on brushing me off. It’s like he doesn’t even consider me a nation!”

“Really?” A reply came in the form of a noncommital hum. “It’s almost as if you aren’t an actual nation, _Sealand_.”

Rihana paused in her walk as she heard the voices come from around the corner of the hallway. The Olympics were currently in full swing, and Caracas was bustling with the athletes and representatives of almost 200 nations. It was late in the evening, however, and Rihana had elected to go back to her room early while many of the other nations remained in their shared hotel’s recreation room, celebrating another successful Olympics. Though she loved alcohol and the company of her friends as much as the next person, she didn’t want to be hung over and miss her people’s first serious water polo match against Germany the next morning.

But it seemed that she hadn’t been the only one to have this idea. Though the name Sealand didn’t ring any bells with her (he had to be a territory or micronation; he sounded like he was barely 13), the second voice was slightly familiar.

Shaking herself, Rihana turned the corner as the younger child huffed, obviously annoyed. She found herself nearly face-to-face with two nations younger than her. The first to catch her attention was the elder of the two, a young man barely out of his teenage years. He had platinum blond, almost white, hair that fell in short bangs around his face, and was rather pale. What caught her attention the most, however, were his eyes. They were… violet. The sort of dark violet that one could almost mistake for blue, but at this distance that mistake was hard to make. Rihana felt herself pause in surprise as the man blinked at her, also caught off-guard.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed that she had been surprised like that, especially with forewarning. 

“I-it’s fine,” the man replied. “You’re… Somalia, right? I think we’ve met in passing.”

“Yes,” Rihana replied slowly, tearing her eyes away from the man as her attention drifted to the 12-year-old boy at the man’s side. He was definitely a Kirkland, if his straw-blond hair and monstrously thick eyebrows were anything to go by. “Your name’s slipped my mind, I’m afraid. Who are you, again?”

“It’s fine. I’m a small nation; not many people know about me. I’m Iceland.” The man stuck out his hand, and Somalia shook it. Ah, a northern nation. That explained the eyes.

“I’m Sealand!” The boy chirped. “And don’t listen to Ice! I’m a _real_ nation!” 

Ah. Micronation it was, then, and almost certainly one from the UK. Somalia ignored the prick in her heart as she nodded along with the boy’s words. Micronations didn’t tend to live very long in the grand scheme of things. 

“Sorry about almost running into you, there,” She apologised, already continuing on. “Anyways, I better get going. Have a good evening.”

“See you soon,” Iceland replied, raising a hand in farewell and continuing on, steering Sealand away by the shoulder. Somalia paused, confused by the parting remark, but they were gone around the corner in moments.

_What? What makes you so certain I’ll run into you again?_

“Alexa, what’s Sealand?” She asked, tilting her head. 

“ _The Principality of Sealand, commonly known as Sealand, is a micronation that claims Roughs Tower, an offshore platform in the North Sea approximately 12 kilometres off the coast of Suffolk, England as its territory[1],”_ came the automatic reply from her earpiece. Rihana hummed, walking back over to her room. 

Then she paused.

Stopping just a couple feet from her room, Rihana took out the folded piece of paper that had appeared in her jacket pocket. Paper? That product had become obsolete in recent years, as Hybrid Energy tablets and related products took over the writing market. Iceland must have slipped it to her when they were talking, heaven knows how. If he had used paper, he was taking extra precautions to make sure that his message wasn’t intercepted. 

Rihana unfolded the piece of paper, subtly positioning herself so that it was out of sight on the cameras positioned in the corners of the hallway. She squinted down at the handwriting (had he used _pencil_? God, Rihana was starting to feel more ancient than usual; she hadn’t written in pencil for at least the last half decade) and read the short message.

_Meeting on the roof. You’ll want to be there._

Well, then. This was getting interesting. If the conversation she had overheard was anything to go by, this was probably going to be about the UK’s odd behavior over the last couple months. She might as well indulge in this favor, though she had no idea what kind of help she would be.

Rihana palmed open the door to her hotel room, ducking inside and opening the drawer next to her bed. Inside was a small, easily disguised pistol that she slipped into one of her jacket’s interior pockets. She was out the door again within moments, returning back to the elevator and hitting the button for the top floor. Thankfully, all the nations had been briefed on the layout and all possible exits of the hotel when they’d first arrived as a safety precaution, so she had little trouble finding the stairwell once the elevator door opened.

The cool evening air of Caracas, Venezuela buffeted her face as Rihana stepped onto the rooftop, closing the door softly behind her. The city was alight with activity and traffic, and several kilometers away, she could see the large stadium that hosted most of the major events on the horizon. 

“Evening, Somalia. I’m glad you had some form of trust in my friend. Sorry about the secrecy of this whole thing; I wasn't sure if the same could be said for me.”

Rihana turned, catching sight of America walking towards her. Behind him, she spotted Iceland watching her with those blue-violet eyes of his. Though America was at least pretending to be in a good mood, the northern nation no longer held any such pretense, gazing at her seriously, as if he expected her to attack at any moment. Sealand was no longer with him.

“Well, I am a rather curious woman,” she responded after a moment. She shook hands with the former superpower, watching him carefully for any sudden movements. Her pistol was heavy in her jacket pocket. “I’m assuming this has something to do with the U.K.? That Sealand boy was complaining quite loudly about them.”

America shrugged, smile falling until it was hanging by a couple strings. 

“Peter—Sealand, I mean—is the youngest of the Kirkland brothers, if you don’t know. He’s the one who alerted us to the severity of this whole situation, so I thought it was only fair that he be able to help a little bit. It's good experience for him, anyhow."

“Well, I think we can all agree that the UK—England, specifically—has been acting _off_ these last couple of months,” Somalia said, doing her best to keep to the point. “What does this have to do with me? And why is this so secret that we’re meeting on the roof, of all places?”

“To answer that last question, I had the roof debugged a half hour or so ago. There will be no surveillance up here until midnight at the latest. Secondly, I, speaking on behalf of HERA, need a favor from you.”

“And that is…?”

America paused, a slight flicker of sheepishness crossing his features before pulling something out of his pocket. Upon closer inspection, Somalia realized with a start that it was a computer chip. A _modern era_ computer chip.

“You know, you are allowed to use hybrid energy in these sorts of things,” she remarked. America shook his head. 

“Not worth the risk, I’m afraid. England is in charge of most of HERA’s hybrid energy research. It’d be too easy for him to take a peek at what the rest of us are trying to do if we used hybrid energy, or at least notice that something’s up. That chip there holds the plans to an invention a couple of my states have been working on. Thing is, we don’t have the hybrid-based technology yet to build it on our own. We need some parts that, as of yet, only the Elites’ governments have access to.”

Somalia took the computer chip hesitantly, examining it with a suspicious eye.

“And if I give you these parts, what exactly do I get out of this?”

“Besides making sure the UK doesn’t go on a psychotic rampage? The plans for this invention. Let me assure you, this is something you don’t want to miss out on.” He winked. Somalia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “If you agree, Iceland here will be our in-between man. He’s a trusted friend of mine, and one England doesn’t care much for the smaller nations like him.” He seemed to catch his words too late, and winced. “Sorry, Ice.”

A shrug. “I’m used to it.” 

“Don’t worry, _I_ like you!” He switched his attention back to Somalia. “Anyways, do you agree?”

Somalia hummed thoughtfully, fingering the computer chip. Distantly, fireworks began to fire above the Olympics Stadium, bathing them in an array of red, yellow, and blue for several seconds before fading away. 

“I’ll have to think about it,” she finally conceded, pocketing the chip. “I mean, I’m in, but the rarity of these parts is the problem. If you or the Italies don’t have access to it, chances are it’s rather hard to come by, even for us Elites. We’ll have to see how many of these things we’ll even be able to make.”

“Just do your best delivering the parts, and we’ll take care of the rest,” America replied. Somalia nodded.

“So,” she questioned. “How many people are in on this deception? You, Iceland, and Sealand, of course, but who else?”

“Italy Romano and Spain. If you want to count my states, Virginia, Texas, and Massachusetts.” 

“Oh, yes.” It took her a moment to realize that Spain would know because he had joined HERA eight or so months ago. She’d forgotten about him. “I’ll keep this underground, then. I can’t guarantee the other Elites won’t find out—by the nature of our alliance, I’ll have to come clean if directly asked—but I’ll do what I can. If this invention of yours is as good as you say, I’m sure I’ll want a piece of it.”

“Thank you,” America grinned, holding out a hand as a spray of red, white, and blue lit up the sky. As Somalia shook it, however, he became much more serious, a tone of worry seeping into his voice. “I mean it. The way England’s going, he’s going to incite a war between the NSAO and Cuba’s Order. I’m sure you’ve heard about their conflicts; England is not being a very stable intermediary right now.”

And suddenly the severity of what he was asking clicked.

“This isn’t just you wanting to figure out what’s wrong with the UK. You want to take him out of the picture entirely,” Somalia realized, eyes widening. This was… very unlike America. Sure, he’d backstabbed his allies before, every nation had, but in the last century or so he’d at least acted extremely loyal to his loved ones, perhaps to a fault, if the whole New Mexico disappearance back in WWIII was anything to go by. Especially now, with his decreased power and the close-knit nature of HERA, this was a desperate step to take. 

Iceland shifted, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable and shooting Somalia an annoyed look, while a look of intense guilt crossed America’s face before being securely tucked away again underneath a cold facade that she hadn’t seen since the Cold War. The tension between the three had suddenly increased, and Somalia very quickly realized that she had said the wrong thing.

"Yes," America finally said, voice cold. "When it comes down to it, I am willing to do what it takes to maintain world security. Are you?"

Somalia let out a long breath as a white sakura flower firework lit the sky. 

"I suppose I am," she said. 

The chip in her pocket seemed much heavier than just a moment before. 

* * *

**August 12, 2044**

**New Orleans, Louisiana, USA**

The last few months had been _exhausting_. 

America sighed, sipping out of his cup of coffee as he sat in the break room. Just down the hall, the NSAO and Cuba's order were going through yet _another_ round of negotiations over the South American Fog issue. They had been going at it for the last eight months now, and things had only been getting worse and worse in the meantime, each party sticking their feet even further into the mud as time progressed. This particular meeting had started four hours ago, and the five South Americans were _still_ going strong, debating and presenting and yelling at each other. This had to be their fifth meeting discussing the same topic, and yet they still found new things to fight about. He’d finally left ten minutes ago, giving up on trying to mediate for the time being and pawning the job off on Virginia. 

Well, it wasn’t like he would be able to do anything. He’d given all he could afford to help Venezuela, little as it was, and yet they were no closer to figuring out where the fog came from, much less how to remove it. Any secrets Cuba and Colombia were holding on the matter had yet to be revealed. It was making America uneasy, sure, but not to the level that it was bothering the NSAO. It was fog; it wasn’t like their lives were in danger!

 _They probably will be if Cuba doesn’t back down, though_ , he thought darkly, taking another gulp of coffee.

“Everything normal in there?”

America looked up in surprise to see England entering the room, taking a seat opposite him and going on his phone. He looked rather annoyed that to be here (which made sense because he _was not supposed to be here_ ), as if he’d only asked the question to be polite, and even then it was a lackluster performance. He wore the usual black suit that all nations wore to meetings, with a dark overcoat, white polo, and slacks. However, what America really focused on was his friend-brother-father-whatever's face. Sure enough, he was wearing those damned glasses again, the red tint to the frames giving his jade eyes a dull, orange-brown glow. If he looked closer (and he did), he could see the text crawling across their glass frames. No doubt he was looking over some random information or scanning the building. America would be surprised if he was even paying half-attention to him right now.

"You know I hate it when you wear those glasses," he muttered half-heartedly instead of answering, stomach swirling with worry and guilt and disappointment that he had found out about the meeting. He thought of the modern-era phone in his jacket pocket, and the guilt worsened into a rock. 

At least he was spared a glance this time. England shrugged, eyes flickering to his phone, which he pulled out as he sat down. 

“I told you,” He replied after a moment, clearly annoyed. “We’re trying out a new strain of hybrid energy. The glasses are one of the inventions we’re testing. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Alfred frowned deeper, but at this point England clearly didn’t care much about it. “Besides, last I checked it was _my_ turn to mediate the negotiations. Why in the world did you think it was a good idea to reschedule it without my knowledge?”

“Last time you mediated, Sealand breaking in at the last minute was the only thing that stopped an all-out war, so no, I don’t trust you with the NSAO and Cuba’s Order.” Alfred regretted the harsh, biting words almost as soon as he had spoken them, but knew in his heart that he was right. That specific occurrence had been three months ago, in May.

“The NSAO is being entirely unreasonable,” England snapped, setting down an arm almost violently on the table that separated them as he turned to fully face him. “Cuba is under no obligation to inform us of all the advancements he makes.”

“Sure, _that’s_ what you said when Russia and India forced me to make PXT 2020 available worldwide. I’m sure you can remember what happened because of that.”

England looked like he wanted to bite back, but seemed to think better of it as he leaned back in his chair, the fight in him draining just a bit when he realized that he didn’t have an answer for that. America tore his gaze away from his ally, taking a large gulp of his coffee, finishing it off, and shooting a text to Virginia to see if everything was alright.

“Why aren’t you mediating, then, if you’re so adamant on hosting the peace talks?” England finally asked, looking tired. “You have a continent to worry about, don’t you?”

“I’m on break,” America shrugged, doing his best to appear as if the question didn’t bother him as much as it did. He should have waited an hour to take his break; Virginia would have been more than happy to run the former empire off. “Virginia’s with them right now.”

“Well, let’s hope she works better than you. If they don’t come to some sort of agreement soon I daresay there’ll be a war, that, mind you, would _not_ be my fault. And if Cuba attacks first, NATO could get pulled in and then we’ll have a World War IV on our hands only twelve years after the third. It’d be a new record.” He paused for a moment, typing rapidly into his phone. “I’d like to inform you, by the way, that I’m actually here for trade talks. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss how to put your country on the new strain of hybrid energy.” His lips twitched upwards, and America could sense a tinge of hopefulness coming off of him that he hadn’t seen since March. But it was twisted, uneasy. America most certainly did not want to try out this new form of hybrid energy; he suspected that it had something to do with England’s change in demeanor and did not want to test that theory on himself. “Sorry for the late notice; originally it was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting on the human side of things, but since I found out that I'm no longer mediating—” his voice lost the positive tinge to it, replaced with a slight anger. “I realized that we’d be meeting soon anyways.”

America didn’t reply immediately to that, leaning back in his chair. Ah, that explained a lot. He’d made England much more angry with this change than he’d initially expected, enough that he’d taken on the meetings over hybrid energy consumption as an excuse to meet with him in person. 

Oh well. He’d cross that bridge during their “meeting” tomorrow. Or maybe he’d get Delaware to come for him…. Now _that_ was tempting. 

His phone vibrated, and he checked it to find that Virginia had responded. 

_It’s not going well, Dad. They’re threatening to shoot missiles at each other. AGAIN. Get me out of here before I punch someone._

He sighed through his nose and texted back:

_As long as you come out here and deal with the angry Brit who just showed up._

It took her five seconds to reply.

_Deal._

* * *

  
  


**November 3, 2044**

**-23.651850”S, 57.567975"E, Indian Ocean**

The ocean was rocky. It swelled with the rapidly lowering air pressure, rocking the ship Jett Kirkland was standing on, and a particularly adventurous wave crashed off the starboard side, sending a spray of sea salt into the air. The sky was almost filled with clouds, with dark cumulonimbi forming to the east and spreading out until only a sliver of clear sky remained, hugging the western horizon. There was no land in sight.

Jett Kirkland stood on the top deck of the _HMAS Albury_ [2], his gray parka fluttering about his torso as he leaned on the guard rail, eyes scanning the ocean below him. Some of his men were out with him, some keeping lookout, cleaning the decks, and others were gathering the last bit of sonar equipment that they had deployed earlier that day. Most of them were inside, though, preparing to head for Saint Denis, Réunion[3], where they would weather the incoming tropical storm in the small island port. 

Jett frowned as the last of the _Albury_ ’s equipment was loaded onboard, her propellers whirring as she gradually began to increase her speed and turn to the northwest. Desperation and frustration were twin vipers in his core, slithering and coiling around him as he hoped against hope that this last run of the sonar would reveal to him the quarry they were looking for. 

"Think you'll be inside for dinner? Or are you just going to stare out at the ocean like a brooding superhero?"

Jett turned over to see Zachary, wearing the same kind of parka he was, walking over to him, feet braced against the rocking of the boat. His small stature compared to the large parka made him look several years younger than he actually was.

"...Shut up, Zach," he muttered, glancing back out over the ocean. Another wave crashed against the _Albury_ 's hull, this one larger than the last. Though they were too high up to get wet, a thin spray of water sprinkled the upper deck in a brief burst of mist. "I'll go in once the rain starts."

"That won't be too long." Zach tilted his head back to gaze disinterestedly at the sky, his hood falling back to reveal his curly brown hair falling around his ears, messy and unkempt. "But I'd prefer it if you went inside. You aren't doing much out here and there's work to be done."

"Let me mope."

"Moping time's over." Zach clapped him on the shoulder. "Work time."

"What is there to work on?" Jett questioned, slamming his hands down on the railing and relishing the feeling of the misty, freezing cold metal on his palms. "This was supposed to be a new form of travel; something to revolutionize the world! Now it's sitting somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, and we can't even find it."

"Jett, no one could have predicted us losing the HM-32." Zach's eyes softened somewhat. "Especially so suddenly. All the tests runs had gone near perfectly. It's not your fault."

"600 _million_ dollars[4], down the drain in an instant!"

"That's where the work comes in, bro. Come on, Mella's waiting for us."

Jett sighed, finally releasing his grip on the guardrail and trying to massage some feeling back into them. He brushed past his brother, leaving him to catch up with his brisk pace. He lowered the hood of his parka as they entered the bridge, the door clanging shut as he then unclasped the edge of the parka and took it off entirely, draping it on an unoccupied chair.

"Alright, Mella," Jett sighed. "How are things going on your end?"

In the corner of the room, a black-and-white hologram of Melokuhle flickered, the nation in question sporting a contemplative look. She turned her attention from a tablet in her hands to her adoptive brother as he spoke. 

"About as well as yours," she sighed. "Which is to say: terribly. After this storm passes through it's going to be even harder to find any debris." Jett sighed, shoulders sagging. Zach pulled up a chair for him, and he took it with a nod of thanks. "What do we do now? This was our only prototype. Do we just go and make another? I could help you, but it'd be tough to find the materials again."

"No, it's not worth it," Jett huffed as Zach sat down in his own chair. He sluggishly drew a hand over his eyes. "We don't want to go to all this effort again for the plane to just get sucked up by the tides and kill a dozen more people."

"We'll have to just rely on our modern tech for now," Zach added. "It'll be difficult; we just don't have the capability to search every square kilometer of the ocean. But if we find even a piece of it, we might be able to figure out why it lost power so suddenly."

“Makes sense,” Mella nodded in approval. “We better get to the bottom of this. I’m willing to help you as much as possible to retrieve your plane.”

“That brings me to my next point,” Australia said, straightening as he shared a glance with New Zealand. “We’d like to formalize this as an alliance—an economic one, of course. We’ve decided to call it the Deep Sea Alliance.”

“Count me in,” South Africa grinned. “I suppose we have a date to make it official?”

“December 18th,” Australia smiled back tiredly. “Hope to see you there.”

* * *

[1]-Credit to Wikipedia for the description of Sealand

[2]-Not a real ship, but named after the city of Albury, Australia. 

[3]-Réunion is an island around 500 miles east of the coast of Madagascar, and is a territory of France.

[4]-Australia is using his own currency in this reference; the plane cost just over 375 million US dollars using April 2020 conversion rates. To put this in perspective, the current most expensive US military plane, the F-22 Raptor, costs $350 million per plane to make. Even when split between them, Australia and New Zealand lost a lot of money.


	6. Something More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are monthly updates alright?  
> \--  
> Names:  
> America - Alfred F. Jones  
> Southern Italy - Lovino Vargas  
> Utah - Ryan Jones  
> Colorado - Cody Jones  
> Jammu and Kashmir - Rakhi Abdullah  
> Iran - Farshid Rajavi

**January 11, 2045**

**Ación, Spain**

The jeep crashed over the pothole-filled country road. Somalia gritted her teeth as they passed over a particularly hard bump, nearly losing her grip on her backpack as they did so. Outside, the trees lining the side of the road lashed from side to side, and every couple moments they were illuminated by a blue flash of lightning. The sky was a dark gray, and rain, a blue that was several shades darker than normal, splattered against the windshield in giant droplets. 

Iceland was to her right, hands practically crushing the steering wheel of the modern-era jeep they were using for this mission. He was dressed in a borrowed[1] Spanish Army uniform, the camouflage jacket nearly covered by the white rain parka they'd both donned. 

"How much longer?" Somalia grunted, doing her best to keep a grip on the backpack she was holding on to his lap. "You're a terrible driver!" She grunted, cut off by another pothole. "And Spain’s roads need to be maintained!"

"Not all of us have the money to keep our country roads perfect,” Iceland responded in a clipped tone, tapping at his GPS. The screen was flickering, and the icon representing their car was jumping back and forth across the screen as the satellites above them struggled to find a connection through the storm. He glanced out the window, squinting through the pouring rain, before slowing down and parking off the side of the road. 

“Finally,” Somalia muttered, flipping up the hood of her parka. Bending down, she opened the glove compartment and passed a face mask to him. Made of a smooth Kevlar, the eye openings were covered with fiberglass, and there was an air purifier in the mouth so they could breathe. “I already miss our hybrid cars,” she added as she and her ally pulled the masks on and donned a pair of gloves. “See any holes?”

“Nope. Me?”

“All clear.” Somalia pulled on her backpack opening the door and stepping out into the torrential rain. A gust of wind nearly blew her off of her feet, but she managed to hold on and slam the door shut. 

The rain hissed as it fell to the ground. As it hit Somalia's mark and parka, it sizzled, smoking on the fabric for a short moment before fading. With this hissing in her ears, she stumbled over to the back, helping Iceland unfasten the poles from the top of the jeep. Equipment in hand, the nordic nation led her into the underbrush off the road. The plants, half-dead from the rain, came up to her thighs, and the hissing sound multiplied in volume as they splashed through several puddles and into a small clearing.

“Here,” Iceland said, motioning to the middle of the grassy expanse. Taking his pole, he tilted it up to face the sky. As he did, another large gust of wind burst through the clearing, nearly pulling Somalia off her feet and causing Iceland’s pole to fall and hit him in the shoulder. He let out a short cry of pain, both mast and nation crashing to the muddy ground. “ _Ertu að djóka?!_ ” He shouted to the wind, hurrying to stand once again. “ _Ég mun finna þig í fjöru[2]!_ ”

“You good?” Somalia asked, hurrying to help him pull up the mast against the wind. Her ally grunted in response as they finally got it upright, and twisted the handle in the middle. The pole instantly stabilized as, out of sight beneath the grass, the beam extended a good meter into the ground below. 

“There,” Iceland breathed, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “That’s going to be bruised in the morning.”

“I didn’t know you could be so… colorful.” Somalia snorted despite the situation, earning her an odd look—or as odd as a look could get through their fiberglass lenses. 

“You don’t know Icelandic.” It was a statement, not a question. Iceland pressed the button on the pole’s midsection, and it expanded slightly, revealing a small compartment. Above them, the top fourth or so split apart into a radio dish of sorts, tilted northeast and towards the sky. “Sorry for switching like that, by the way.”

“I’ve been around my fellow Africans long enough to know when someone’s swearing,” Somalia replied. “Believe me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of one of Kenya’s rants, especially when she’s speaking in a dialect of Kikuyu you know hardly a word of.”

“I wasn’t exactly… swearing.” Iceland didn’t elaborate any further, though, as Somalia took off her backpack and pulled out a small piece of machinery, perhaps the size of her hand. It was covered in a rubber casing to protect it from the rain, but Somalia wasn’t taking any chances, swiftly clicking it into place in the center of the mast. 

“I hope this works.” She said, letting the matter of language drop. “I’ve dropped so much time into this thing…”

“It has to,” Iceland tried to reassure her, though his voice wavered in such a way that the attempt fell flat. “At least, for Spain’s sake.”

It had started a week ago, when a storm had formed off in the North Atlantic. Usually, this would be no cause for concern, except that this storm had very… odd properties, like something between a gaseous form of RF Shielding[3] and hybrid energy-infused acid rain, all rolled up into one. It had sunk several ships in the area, before finally making landfall on the northwest coast of Iberia, where they were now. The hybrid energy contaminating the storm, uncontained as it was in the rain, was killing off plant life in the area and disrupting their harnessed hybrid energy so that they had to resort to using modern technology, and contained minor corrosive properties—which, if you were out long enough, would cause injury, hence the minor protective gear. Though a joint HERA and UN effort had been able to evacuate most of the area, at the rate things were going the storm was going to engulf most if not all of Portugal and a good portion of Spain. It’d be a humanitarian crisis almost at or even worse than the level of Yemen back in the late 2010’s[4].

They couldn’t let that happen. And luckily enough, this would be a good field test for the project HERA-minus-the-UK and she had been working on. Somalia let out a breath, unhooking her walkie-talkie from the side of her backpack and holding it up to her mouth.

“Iceland and I have set up our end,” she announced, kneeling down to have better purchase against the harsh winds. “You guys copy?”

“Virginia and I are set up, over.” America’s voice crackled through the speaker, faint and distorted through the storm. They waited for a couple minutes, Iceland kneeling next to her as they listened for news.

“Spain and I are also ready,” Romano’s voice finally echoed them, and Somalia allowed a breath of relief to slip past her lips. “Are you all in position?”

Iceland pulled a remote out of Somalia’s backpack with her, and nodded. The electronic sported only a single button. “Yes, sir,” she reported into the walkie-talkie.

“On three,” America announced. There was another gust of wind, and Iceland grabbed Somalia’s arm for support. “Two… One!”

Iceland pressed the button, and there was a sudden rush of energy as a low, rumbling roar emanated from the mast. Somalia couldn’t help but clutch at her head as it passed them, a sudden headache springing up. It was over in a moment, but it took her longer than that to recover.

“You weren’t _kidding_ when you said this had a kick to it,” Iceland announced, rubbing at his forehead. “I can’t see a thing!”

“The blindness is only a temporary side effect. It'll pass,” Somalia replied instinctively, blinking her own black spots out of her eyes as she stood up on shaky feet. Reaching into her backpack brought out another gadget, and the screen beeped as Somalia held it out in the rain, which was slowly beginning to subside. She grinned as she checked the readings on the screen. “Besides, it worked!" She thrust it at him so he could see, before remembering that he was still blind. "No hybrid energy detected! It's safe to take off your gear."

“At least there’s that,” Iceland mumbled disgruntledly, fumbling to pull off his face mask before finally succeeding. Somalia followed suit, relishing the sensation of the cool, slightly tangy water splattering on her face. 

“That was… amazing…” Spain announced through the walkie-talkie, his voice now crystal-clear. 

“Of course it is,” she replied, standing up. “America and I have been working on it for months now. What do you feel about _that_ for a test run?”

“I think it was successful,” Romano’s voice cut in as Iceland rubbed at his eyes again, his pupils finally beginning to focus. “It’s official, America. Your design for the hybrid energy EMP worked.”

“And on such a large scale, too!” said nation announced, voice cracking slightly with excitement. Iceland reached out a hand in a silent ask for help, and Somalia grabbed it and helped him stand up on shaky legs.

“Easy for you to say,” the nordic nation grumbled, raising his free hand to his mouth and continuing to balance on Somalia with the other. “Ergh, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Iceland’s experiencing some rather extreme side effects,” Somalia reported to the others, awkwardly patting the near-heaving nation on the back. “He had some blindness and now he’s reporting nausea… I better take him back to the car and get us out of here in case the storm worsens. Are we still meeting in Valladolid tomorrow? I’m sure there’s still some residual damage to the land we’ll need to take a closer look at.”

“Portugal wants to speak with us, too,” Spain added. “He’s reporting sightings of that shadow-thing on his land, and he wants to help us research the effect of this storm on us.”

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” America agreed. “And get Emil checked out by a doctor soon, will you? We don’t have any documented side effects to that extent.”

“I will. It’s time we get going; we’ll see you in Valladolid. Somalia and Iceland checking out.” Without waiting for a response, she turned off the walkie-talkie and clipped it to her belt. Deciding it’d be best to let Iceland lean on their conjoined arms as he stumbled alongside her back to the van, they left the equipment behind for a later trip to get back.

“‘Iceland and Somalia’” the former nation of the chuckled loosely as they reached the road. He glanced at her, his blue-violet eyes glittering in the drizzling, purewater rain. “Now is that something you predicted saying a year ago?”

“Not at all,” Rihana laughed, and helped the ailing nation into the car.

* * *

**April 17, 2045**

**Centennial, Colorado, United States of America**

“Well, that went just _swimmingly_!”

Alfred barged through the front door of Cody’s house, the wooden door frame slamming into the wall with an audible _bang!_ and no doubt leaving a large dent in the wall. The resident state jumped at the unexpected intrusion, pulling off her VR headset in surprise. Ryan, curled up on the couch with an ebook in the crook of his arm, nearly fell off, his tablet succeeding in the endeavor as he shot up to catch sight of his father. 

"Jesus Christ!" Cody exclaimed, while Ryan hurried to sit up. "Warn somebody before you barge in, Dad!"

"Language, Cody," Ryan muttered by force of habit as a second person followed in after Alfred. It took him a couple moments to recognize the foreigner as Southern Italy. Italy might be America's closest ally these days, but to be honest, Ryan had been trying to stay out of international politics after WWIII and hadn't seen him since the war. “What’s going on? I thought you were in Dallas for the weekend.”

“I _was_!” Alfred all but shouted, brushing past them and towards the stairs. “Cody, where are your uniforms? I left mine with you.”

“Uh, in the guest closet, I think. Why?”

“¡No tenemos tiempo! ¡Maldita sea, soy demasiado joven para esto![5]” He was already halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Dad, you’re speaking Spanish again!”

“¡Bueno! ¡Dios sabe que lo voy a _necesitar_!” There was a slamming of a door upstairs and the thumping of footsteps overhead.

“He’s been reading reports in Spanish for the last two hours,” Romano said by way of explanation. He was wearing a button-up shirt and slacks, but seemed slightly disheveled. He leaned on the side of the couch. “Which one of you is Colorado?”

“I am, but you can call me Cody,” Cody replied, rushing to put away her VR gear. “The nerd over there is my brother Utah, or Ryan.”

“¡Cody! ¡Ponte el uniforme de cadete, vamos a la academia!” Alfred called from upstairs.

“What? Why are we going to the Academy?!” Cody exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s, like an hour away! And I was going out to dinner with Ryan tonight!”

“Cody! I mean it!”

“Fine!” The redhead let out an exaggerated groan and stomped up the stairs to her room.

“You’re Utah?” Romano peered over at Ryan with a disinterested gaze, and he had to repress a flinch. “Little less than I expected, but I suppose you’ll do. You’re the diplomat of the family, I hear.”

“Uh, not really.” Ryan was quick to put down whatever ideas the foreigner had real quick. He did _not_ want a part of this. “Cody was the one who planned the whole China thing, I just talked a bit.”

Romano shrugged. “We’ll need a talker. Heaven knows Alfred’s a terrible diplomat, and I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t deal well with… ah, what’s the word… _idiozias._ ”

“What’s even going on?”

“Cuba’s Order and the NSAO are shooting hybrid energy missiles at each other.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Yeah. Apparently their last meeting didn’t go too well. _Bastardos_ decided enough was enough and started shooting at each other three hours ago, but they keep on intercepting the missiles and keeping them from hitting the ground.”

“And NATO?”

“Germany and France are working on a statement to declare our neutrality. Though the NSAO and Cuba’s Order aren’t _officially_ at war yet, a declaration could arrive at any time, and if Cuba does it first we might be obligated to help Venezuela. Apparently some Air Force Academy students have a project that’ll help us see what’s going on or something.”

“Oh.” Right, the US Air Force Academy was around 50 minutes south of here, and the officers-in-training there often helped work on new tech for the military. If there was something to help them, it would be there.

They lapsed into a somewhat awkward silence after that. Ryan sighed, biting his lip as he pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to Cali, cancelling his plans to come over the next day and help with relief efforts with her most recent wildfire. It was too bad; he was really looking forward to helping out. 

A couple minutes later saw Alfred stomping back down the stairs, now dressed in the navy blue overcoat and slacks of a Major General and pinning his name tag to his jacket, shoes untied. A moment later Cody followed in the light blue polo of an Air Force cadet, hat in her teeth and pulling her hair into a bun. She was sending dark looks at their father, which Alfred was pointedly ignoring. 

“Come on,” he said curtly. Despite having switched back to English, his voice still had a distinctive Southwestern accent to it. “You two will be okay without uniforms.”

Romano shrugged and followed Alfred out of the house. Ryan shared a helpless look with Cody, who shrugged in a frustrated manner. The elder state resisted the instinct to pinch his nose.

What had they gotten themselves into this time?

  
  


* * *

**April 19, 2045**

**Mashhad, Iran**

Mashhad was a beautiful city. It had been far too long since Rakhi had taken a pilgrimage there; in the thirty or so years since she had last visited, hybrid energy had almost completely taken over. More cars were in the street and people on the sidewalk had a general friendliness to them that had been absent in the previous generation. To the northwest, she could just make out the spiralling towers of the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza[6] peeking out from between the rising buildings.

It was a pity she wouldn’t be here for more than a day, too little time to go and see the shrine for herself. India would surely take notice if she stayed any longer, and though her bid for independence had so far been successful, she wasn’t keen on him finding out that she was friendly with Iran. She was already toeing the line by holding the information about Mortantite’s harvesting over his head; she didn’t need to push him over the edge and attack en force, consequences be damned.

A knock at the door drew her out of her thoughts. Rakhi nodded to her guards, tucking several strands of hair back into her hijab as she turned away from the hotel’s balcony and to the front door, where a dark-haired man was just being led inside by her bodyguards. Rakhi stood upon his arrival, and the two bowed loosely to each other in way of greeting.

“Salaam alaykum, Jammu and Kashmir,” Iran said. 

“Salaam, Iran,” Rahki said softly, returning to her seat. “Though with your consent I think I’ll just refer to you as Farshid from now on. As far as the rest of the world goes, this meeting never occurred.”

“As you wish, Rahki,” Farshid replied somewhat curiously as he took the seat opposite the new country. “Now, I assume you’re here for a reason? You’ve hardly left Jammu and Srinagar[7] since your independence, and we’ve hardly talked since the partition.”

Rahki sighed heavily, playing softly with the hems of her sleeves. They didn’t have long together; it was probably best that they get to the point.

“I need a favor from you, Farshid,” she announced. The elder nation’s eyebrows went up.

“And why me? Of all the countries around you, why Iran?”

“This is why.” Rakhi gestured to one of her bodyguards, who brought forth a sleek black suitcase. She took it and set it on her lap, where he could see it easily. 

"You're not going to open it?" Farshid asked. Rakhi shook her head.

"I'm afraid I don't want to take that risk," she confessed. "You see, Farshid, inside this case is a crystal, around 10 centimeters long and 4 wide, and is purely made of condensed Hybrid Energy. When we found it in my land, it was unlike anything we'd ever seen before, and I think it could be an asset to a certain country. But India is monitoring me too closely for me to tell anyone about it in my lands. I need you to deliver it for me."

Farshid frowned, running a hand through his beard. Silently, he raised his eyebrows to signal her to continue. 

“I know you’ve invented a sort of teleportation by using hybrid energy gates,” she continued. “And that South Africa helped you develop them and so is the only other country to have this tech.” She patted the briefcase. “Send this to South Africa with instructions to pass it on to Australia. Make sure no one outside of those absolutely necessary know about this transaction.” 

“This invention isn’t yet open to the public yet,” Farshid commented. Rahki held his gaze evenly, impressed that he was taking this revelation so well. “I’m sure now that you’ve revealed the existence of your spies to me, I’ll weed them out.”

“Who says they’re human?” Rahki replied with a wink. “Besides, I have to protect my people _somehow._ ”

“And that is why I’ll do this favor. But if I discover you’re plotting against me or the Deep Sea Alliance, you’ll have a bigger problem than India over your head.”

“Good thing I only have good intentions in mind, then.” Rahki stood up and passed the briefcase to Farshid, who took it gingerly. “But in all honesty, thank you, Farshid. Australia will need this.”

“So you say,” Iran replied softly. “So you say.”

* * *

[1]-Iceland has no army—their only defense is a token coast guard. He had to borrow a uniform from Spain.

[2]- The first phrase roughly translates to “Are you joking/Are you kidding me?!” except with more crass connotations. The second is an idiom/threat of sorts, literally meaning "I will find you on a beach," while figuratively, he’s telling the storm he’ll have his (violent) revenge. Both of these have come from translation websites, so I’m fairly confident in their accuracy.

[3]- A solution used for blocking radio frequency interference. It involves the construction of an enclosure to reduce the electric and magnetic transmissions from one space to another.

[4]- A reference to a humanitarian crisis occurring in Yemen due to a combination of violence, cholera, and famine, and is currently ongoing as of the time of writing in October 2019.

[5]- Spanish - 

“We don't have the time! Dammit, I'm too young for this!” 

“Good! Heaven knows I’m going to _need_ it!”

“Cody! Put on your cadet uniform, we're going to the academy!”

[6]- The largest mosque in the world, and is the epicenter of millions of Muslim Shia pligrims every year. Jammu and Kashmir, from what I can find, has a sizeable Shia population, so she has an interest in the mosque and Iran as an ally of sorts in general.

[7]- Jammu is Jammu and Kashmir’s capital in the winter; in summer, the capital is Srinagar.

  
  


Top Regional Powers:

The Americas: (1) U.S.A. (2) New Order Venezuela (3) Cuba (4) Canada (5) Brazil

Europe: Information Unavailable

Africa: (1) Ethiopia (2) Somalia (3) South Africa (4) Algeria (5) Eritrea

Asia & Oceania: (1) Members of ASEAN (2) India (3) Australia (4) China (5) Japan


End file.
